


The Malfoy Mistress

by ThebeMoon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bad Acronyms, F/M, Malfoy Manor (Harry Potter), Poorly Executed Seduction Techniques, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Second War with Voldemort, Shakespeare Quotations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:09:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29678913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThebeMoon/pseuds/ThebeMoon
Summary: Unable to bear the sight of Bellatrix carving into Hermione Granger at Malfoy Manor, Draco Malfoy whisks his hated former schoolmate to safety. He should have known better.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 42
Kudos: 250
Collections: DFW's Deal or No Deal: Famous Shakespeare Lines





	The Malfoy Mistress

**Author's Note:**

> Hear my soul speak:  
> The very instant that I saw you, did  
> My heart fly to your service
> 
> — THE TEMPEST, ACT 3 SCENE 1, LINES 63-65; FERDINAND TO MIRANDA

“Well, that’s strange.”

“It’s kissing, Granger. You’ll get used to it.”

Hermione opened her eyes, half-expecting to see a ragged Inferius or giant pink Pygmy Puff. Clearly she was hallucinating after her ordeal. But no, Draco Malfoy was there on the sofa with her, his pale face cold-eyed and sneering. The only change was a faint flush to his cheeks and slightly ruffled hair. 

“Your kisses are … surprising,” she said. 

Malfoy glared. “One mention of Poor Boy and I swear I will send you back to Bellatrix.”

Hermione tried to explain. “No, you don’t understand, you’re supposed to be hard and cold and selfish.”

“I _am_ hard and cold and selfish, so don’t get any ideas, Granger.” Malfoy wagged a finger at her. “I want the Dark Lord out of my house for good,” he continued, “and that won’t happen if you’re bleeding out in my drawing room.”

“That’s very logical of you,” Hermione admitted. And it was. She’d been shocked by her sudden apparition after the chandelier fell. A tiny elf had taken her to an opulent bedroom that looked like Salazar Slytherin’s snake had barfed green and silver everywhere. The room turned out to belong to Draco Malfoy, who sat drinking firewhiskey in the corner while the elf healed Hermione, bathed her, clothed her, fed her and brought her to this very sofa to hear what the young wizard had in mind.

“I think this whole mistress idea is quite good, Malfoy,” Hermione continued,” despite the appalling patriarchal overtones.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “So glad you approve. Now let’s get on with it.” He leaned toward again, hands sliding over her hips. 

“But your kisses aren’t hard and cold and selfish.” Hermione was determined to pursue her line of thought. “They’re warm and passionate … sweet.” She was pleased by her academic tone, a tone difficult to maintain when one’s mouth was inches from the aforementioned warm, passionate and sweet lips. 

“Sweet? _Sweet?_ ” Malfoy was outraged. “I am not sweet!”

“No, you’re not.” Hermione agreed. “You are rotten nearly to the core, as far as I can tell. But your kisses are very sweet.”

Malfoy was not appeased. “Neither I nor my kisses are sweet. This is not a disgusting little Gryffindor romance, this is a powerful rite of protection, and frankly, Granger, I expected a little more cooperation.”

“I am cooperating! It was just an … observation.” Hermione huffed. “Fine, let’s get on with it.”

That was all the encouragement Malfoy needed, and once more those surprisingly enticing lips were on hers, taking and teasing with warm touches and sweet little sounds … dangerous.

“Mmmm, dangerous,” Malfoy whispered. “Much better. I’m very dangerous.”

Hermione blinked. She must have said that last word aloud. “No, you’re not.”

Malfoy lifted his head, frowning once again. Merlin, he was easily distracted. “Yes, I am.”

“No, that’s my point,” Hermione insisted. “Your kisses are dangerous. _You_ are not.”

He released her and stood so he could loom more effectively. “Have you gone mad?” he snarled. “You’re trapped in a bedroom with a Death Eater, and right this minute the Dark Lord is downstairs _Crucio_ -ing half the household.” His face darkened further. “One wrong move, Granger, _one wrong move_ , and you’ll join them.”

“Unlikely.”

Malfoy leaned over her, one hand on the sofa back. “My father was right, you know. All I have to do is bring you downstairs and announce I’d kept one of the Golden Trio from escaping and all will be forgiven. Or most will be forgiven.” His hard grey eyes held Hermione’s. “So you might want to avoid words like _sweet_.”

Hermione huffed again. “You are impossible to please,” she complained. “I told you that you weren’t sweet. I said your kisses were dangerous. And still you’re threatening to throw me to your Dark Lord.” 

She crossed her arms. “If you do get yourself a mistress someday, Merlin help the poor witch. You’ll drive her mad. And your wife as well. Maybe the two of them could form a support group. Oh, I know—DRIP, or Draco’s Rehabilitation In Phases. I could write up a charter so it will be all set up when you bring them on.”

Malfoy held out his arm, wand poised over the Mark. “Just keep talking, Granger.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but decided discretion was the better part of valor. They had a ritual to complete. 

“Fine,” she said in a bored tone, “Draco Malfoy is a hard, cold, selfish and dangerous wizard and I”m very frightened.”

That didn’t seem to help much. He was still looming, although he did put down the wand. “Salazar, I hate you,” he seethed. “You are the last witch I would _ever_ want as my mistress.”

“Yet here we are,” she pointed out, “and it’s not a terrible idea. I should have thought of it myself. I’ve read all about ancient house spells, especially those invoked to protect Sacred Twenty-Eight men and their wives, children … and mistresses.” She couldn’t help flushing. “Quite practical, if you think about it, with that clause protecting a mistress from the wife.”

Malfoy scowled. “Where would _you_ read about such things?”

“Hogwarts’ Restricted Section.” Hermione pulled her legs up under her and settled more comfortably on the sofa. “I researched every protective spell and ward I could get my hands on before leaving school.”

“This ritual is a mad idea,” Malfoy said, beginning to pace. “There must be a better way to protect you.”

“No, it’s perfect, if indisputably awful,” Hermione said. “It ensures a Malfoy mistress remains unseen and unheard by anyone but her … lover.” Malfoy groaned slightly and she felt like groaning along, but sugarcoating things never helped. “And his wife, which is not an issue here. If we complete the ritual, I’ll be able to walk out the front gate with you and no one will be the wiser.”

“But we’ll have to …” Malfoy looked uneasy, which was rather surprising. Hermione thought he’d be revolted by the prospect of bedding a Mudblood. Instead he was frowning worriedly at her. He almost looked _concerned_.

“Don’t worry about me,” Hermione said. “I’ll just lie back and think of England.”

“I’m not worried about you,” Malfoy snapped. He strode over to a table and poured a goblet of wine. He didn’t offer Hermione any. “I’m worried about _me_. If this gets out, I’m done for.”

He took a gulp and glared at her. “And even if I ever were to take a mistress, she would be _nothing_ like you.”

“Of course,” Hermione said, pleased to be able to agree with him again. “She would be a quiet, proper pureblood.”

“Exactly,” Malfoy said.

“Although it seems rather pointless, since you’d undoubtedly look for similar qualities in a wife. Surely you’d want a little more novelty.”

“No, I would not,” Malfoy slammed down the goblet. “I have no plans to take a mistress. _Ever._ ”

“You’ll probably have trouble finding one anyway if your Dark Lord loses,” Hermione agreed. “Few witches would want to live in this Manor, unable to talk to anyone but you.” 

Malfoy glared. 

“I suppose she could talk to your wife, but it would be awkward, which is why establishing DRIP is so important,” Hermione said earnestly. “They could trade tips on coping with you and bond over your many appalling qualities.”

“That’s it,” Malfoy announced. “We’re not doing this. I’ll find another way to get you out.”

Hermione jumped to her feet. “You can’t back out now, it’s the only way!”

Malfoy’s glare intensified. “I don’t think I can bring myself to do it.”

“Of course you can,” Hermione said stoutly. “You were doing splendidly before. All you need is a little confidence.”

“I have plenty of confidence!” Malfoy shouted. “I just can’t bear you!”

“Well, I’m not overly thrilled with you either and _I’m_ willing to do it,” Hermione pointed out. “I’m not a virgin, if you’re worried about that.”

“I don’t want to hear what you and Poor--”

Hermione sniffed. “It was not Ron. He hasn’t done near enough groveling yet to make up for Lavender."

Malfoy eyed her almost approvingly. “Don’t you dare forgive him,” he ordered. 

“I’ll forgive whoever I like. I’ve forgiven you, and you called me Mudblood nearly every day for five years!”

The wizard stepped closer, his eyes holding hers again. “You’ve forgiven me for that?”

Hermione didn’t look away. “Of course. Look what you’re doing. You’re saving me.” She reached up a hand to that sharp jaw. 

“Why?” she asked softly. “Why did you order your elf to pull me from the drawing room?”

Malfoy swallowed. “I had to,” he said quietly. “The very instant that I saw you, here in my house, I had to help you.” He stepped away again, averting his eyes. “I couldn’t watch you die.” His fists clenched. _“You won’t die.”_

“No,” she said just as quietly. “You won’t allow it.” She untied her wrapper and allowed it to fall, wishing she’d been able to eat properly while on the hunt for Horcruxes.

But Malfoy apparently liked skin-and-bones girls with cursed cuts and crazy hair, because his eyes widened and he stepped closer. She placed his large, warm hand on her breast. 

“Would it really be so bad?” she asked.

“No,” he answered hoarsely, his hand moving. “It wouldn’t.” The hand trailed to her arm and ran down her skin, over the bandage, until he took her hand and led her to his bed. 

“This spell can’t be broken,” he said, once he’d shed his clothes and joined her. “No matter where you go or who you marry, you’ll be a Malfoy mistress. And any witch I marry will sense it.”

“That’s terrible,” Hermione said. And it was. It was a horrid, oppressive, medieval spell, and she planned to be very outraged once she was safely out of here. A piece of her would be Draco Malfoy’s for the rest of her life. If she ever returned to the Manor, she’d vanish from nearly everybody’s sight while within its walls. And some day in the future she would lock eyes with a proper, perfect pureblood lady and they both would know what she was. 

“Terrible,” Malfoy agreed, but he didn’t sound entirely sincere. Instead his eyes shone with a smug satisfaction just short of triumph. Hermione stiffened, wondering if he meant to degrade her after all, just take his pleasure with a Mudblood mistress, then brag about it, perhaps even turn her in to Voldemort. Had she been wrong about him?

Then his face softened. “My future wife will understand,” he said. “I’ll make her understand. Don’t worry, Granger. Tonight I’ll walk you out of the Manor and you’ll help save us all, and go on to have a brilliant life.” He drew a curl off her cheek. “No one else will know.”

And with that, he kissed her, and the kiss was warm and passionate and sweet and dangerous, and Hermione realized that this wizard was all of these things, whether he knew it or not. The last thing she’d ever expected in this life was to be a Malfoy mistress, but suddenly it didn’t feel strange after all. 


End file.
